Disclaimer: I don't own the rights to BBC's Sherlock or Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's Sherlock Holmes or anything like that.

It was early when Molly made her way into Bart's morgue. She had not intended to come in so early, but when her mobile phone woke her up with a call before dawn accepted the summons to come in.

The person on the other end of the phone – one of the morgue interns – told Molly that a body had come in and that she was specifically requested for the autopsy. Molly thought that the situation was a little strange, but if they wanted her, than she would be there.

So regardless of the chilly October morning Molly bundled herself in her favorite jumper and hailed a cap to Bart's.

The morgue was dark with the lights turned out, so Molly flipped the switches near the door to turn on the lights. Picking the file up off of the edge of the autopsy table where the body laid waiting for her she flipped through it. A member of the Royal Navy, young for his station, only thirty-two years old.

It was unusual for a member of the armed forces to appear on her table, but Molly found the explanation to this abnormality on a sticky note posted on the bottom of the second page.

He wanted this one.

Molly didn't have to think for very long in order to guess who he was. Sherlock must have thought there was something interesting about this particular death even though the officer's chart said that he had a heart defect that was the most likely cause of his death.

Sighing at the thought of Sherlock busting in later that day after he was sure she had finished her autopsy, Molly absentmindedly started opening the black body bag. It wasn't until she had uncovered the man's face that she realized something was very wrong.

His eyes were open, which was not something that was at all normal. More than that though, his eyes were moving. Molly had seen many strange things on her table before, but never anything like this. Trying not to freak out just yet Molly reached towards the man to double check his pulse, perhaps the paramedics had only brought in someone who had fallen asleep in the snow. Hypothermia decreased heart rate and sometimes It was rare, but did happen from time to time.

Before Molly could find a pulse though, the man's own hand shot up and grabbed her wrist. Jumping Molly let loose a high pitched scream that was abruptly cut off as the man moved with the fluidity of a cat sitting up and forcing his other hand over her mouth.

"Hush," he said his voice sliding into her ears like an unpleasantly thick oil and making it difficult for her to hear anything else, "You do not want to fight me."

Even through the unpleasant tone in his voice there was something about this man that made you want to do what he said, even when you were terrified out of your wits. And so Molly did just that and relaxed against the stranger who had her in such a tight hold.

"Good," he hissed in her ear. "Now do not scream. I am going to give you something." He moved his hand from Molly's mouth and seemed to dig around in one of his pockets before pulling out a rag of some kind and pressing it over Molly's face. It only took seconds before she started to feel numb, then her vision started to fade, then finally, Molly was no longer conscious of the world around her.

Sherlock strode into the morgue just after nine in the morning. He had received a text from Lestrade telling him that there was a new case in the morgue that he needed help on. The message had stressed that it was of the utmost importance and that Sherlock could simply text back with his findings. This was unusual since usually Lestrade chose to accompany Sherlock to the morgue, but Sherlock didn't think too much about it when there was a possible case afoot.

Striding into the otherwise empty morgue Sherlock was taken aback by the lack of life there. Sure he was surrounded by corpses so of course there wasn't much actual life, but Molly had a way of filling even this place with life, so he could tell that she wasn't there.

Quickly, Sherlock reviewed the events of the day, already aware that something was very wrong. He had gotten a text from Lestrade, but no call or promise to meet him at the hospital as was usual. On his way in Mike had confirmed that Molly was at work and had been called in early for a special case. Sherlock particularly remembered laughing a bit to himself after he had passed Mike as he thought about the fact that in the morgue everyone was a case for them.

Hearing a crinkling sound beneath his foot at a step Sherlock stopped. Stuck to the bottom of his right shoe was a post-it note in a hand that he did not recognize. He looked at it, memorizing the tilt to the right, indicating handedness and the almost old fashioned loops on the first and last letters of each word possibly suggesting upbringing.

Tucking the note into his pocket Sherlock hurried back out the morgue door and onto the street hailing a cab back towards 221B Baker Street to collect a probably still sleeping John. Once he was settled in the back of the cab and had turned off the intercom between himself and the driver Sherlock pulled out his phone and pressed a few buttons to bring up Lestrade's number.

Molly woke up feeling more sick then she could remember feeling ever before in her life. A headache fit for a hangover and the vomiting to go with it Molly wondered for a brief moment if perhaps she had only been dreaming earlier and instead she had been out with Mary or some of the girls from work. Maybe she had gotten drunk and that was why she felt the way she did.

Just as she was about to convince herself that that was exactly what had happened Molly tried to get up from her position on her side, only to find that she had her arms bound behind her back. It was the best she could do to roll over and pull herself up into a hunched over sitting position so that she didn't choke on the bile that was burning the back of her throat.

"Ah, I see you are awake." The oily voice reached her hears and made Molly want to throw up all over again. "I am sorry to have had to use such barbaric techniques to bring you here, but I only got the contract this morning, and chloroform is surprisingly easy to come by despite what the governments might have you believe."

Words raced through Molly's pounding head: awake, barbaric, chloroform, governments. "Contract?" That was the word Molly's mind held on to the longest, long enough for her to choke out the word even though her world was turning summersaults.

She heard her captor chuckle. "Yes, I work as a contractor of sorts. You have probably seen my work. I am quite famous." He continued laughing and his laugh made Molly's world spin faster and faster until she had no choice other than to empty her stomach one more time. "Oh no, this will not do. Let me find you something to help with the pain."

Struggling to stave off a fourth wave of nausea Molly breathed deeply as the man walked out of the room, apparently meaning what he had said. Looking around Molly forced herself to try and find something that might help her.

All she found though was a very empty, rather small room. The walls seemed to be made of some sort of metal, or perhaps they were just plated with it, and the floor was made of concrete. The ropes binding her arms were just tight enough to keep her from loosening them, but not tight enough that the circulation in her arms was cut off. Groaning Molly came to terms with the fact that she simply did not have the skills set to get herself out of this situation. If she was lucky someone would notice she was gone by now. That was her best hope.

Pacing the floor of Mycroft's office Sherlock waited for news. If anyone would help him find Molly then it was Mycroft and his minions. Just as he was about to start tearing a hole in the wall with his anxiety Sherlock's only brother sauntered in infuriatingly slow. "Well brother. You really have made quite an enemy this time haven't you?"

"What have you found?"

Mycroft set a file down on his desk in front of the chair that Sherlock had finally chosen to sit in. Immediately picking up the file Sherlock flipped through it looking for the most vital information. He was not disappointed. Closing the file, Sherlock gathered his coat and all but ran out of the door.

Molly couldn't tell how much time had passed since she had been taken from the morgue, except by the fact that she no longer felt the need to empty her stomach onto the floor. Her captor had only visited her once more since offering her a small meal, which she refused, and cleaning up the room. He also untied her before locking her in the room one last time. He had seemingly assumed – and rightly so – that Molly could not find a way out of the room.

Resigning herself to sitting in a corner, sure that someone would at least realize that she was missing, Molly waited. She didn't have to wait long before something changed though. The door slid open once again and the stranger came in.

"What do you want?" Molly asked.

The sleek blond next to her chuckled. "I never expected you to be so cliché," he answered. "But then again, in this scenario you are the ultimate cliché my dear. You are the damsel in distress for this story. I do not want you, I want your boyfriend." The use of the word boyfriend so sarcastically made Molly stop and think.

"Sherlock!" She finally exclaimed. "You want Sherlock?" She didn't exactly think that now was the time to bring up that Sherlock wasn't her boyfriend, but she had to set this lunatic strait. "He hardly even looks at me. Some days I don't even think he knows my name."

"Oh, but he does know you. And I dare say he really does like you quite a bit." The man argued. "Now Miss Molly, be a good girl and wait very nicely for me while I wait for Sherlock." He was leaving again, leaving Molly alone, but just as he was walking out the door something changed.

Suddenly the man in front of her was lying on the ground, he struggled, but then a familiar form was on top of him, keeping him down. They struggled for a long while before Sherlock eventually subdued the other man and another, unfamiliar person took the kidnapper away.

Sherlock rushed to Molly's side hoping against hope that she was alright, that she was not hurt. He was relieved to see that there was no blood, but was still worried that something could be wrong.

"Are you alright?" Sherlock asked in a rush. And then, when she didn't respond as fast as he would have like he asked her again.

"Fine, I'm fine Sherlock. Help me up." Molly said.

He complied and supported her once she was on her feet. Sherlock had never noticed just how slight the pathologist was until now. Now she was frighteningly weak and needed support to walk. He didn't have to wait long to figure out why.

The irritation on her face around her mouth and nose told him all that he needed to know. Chloroform would cause that, he was lucky she hadn't died. Then again, Sebastian Moran was a highly trained killer.